PETKOFF.
And how have you been, my dear?
CATHERINE.
Oh, my usual sore throats, that’s all.
PETKOFF.
(with conviction). That comes from washing your neck every day. I’ve often told you so.
CATHERINE.
Nonsense, Paul!
PETKOFF.
(over his coffee and cigaret). I don’t believe in going too far with these modern customs. All this washing can’t be good for the health: it’s not natural. There was an Englishman at Phillipopolis who used to wet himself all over with cold water every morning when he got up. Disgusting! It all comes from the English: their climate makes them so dirty that they have to be perpetually washing themselves. Look at my father: he never had a bath in his life; and he lived to be ninety-eight, the healthiest man in Bulgaria. I don’t mind a good wash once a week to keep up my position; but once a day is carrying the thing to a ridiculous extreme.
CATHERINE.
You are a barbarian at heart still, Paul. I hope you behaved yourself before all those Russian officers.
PETKOFF.
I did my best. I took care to let them know that we had a library.
CATHERINE.
Ah; but you didn’t tell them that we have an electric bell in it? I have had one put up.
PETKOFF.
What’s an electric bell?
CATHERINE.
You touch a button; something tinkles in the kitchen; and then Nicola comes up.